More Broken
by Zelofheda
Summary: After eight years in isolation in a Russian prison, MI-5 officer Lucas North is released.
1. Chapter 1

"Eleven Kapitolina

"Eleven Kapitolina ... twelve Kapitolina ..." Lucas North always added the name of his wife whenever he was counting. Especially during the routine of exercises he'd contrived to combat both the atrophy of his muscles and the boredom of his cell, thinking of her name brought a memory of her face and made him feel closer to her. Before he could grunt "thirteen Kapitolina," however, the sound of footsteps in the corridor stopped at his cell door, and a key rattled in the lock.

Breaking off his pushups, Lucas got to his feet, turning to face the door. He knew at once that it wasn't lunch – not this soon after breakfast. And it wasn't the day that Aleksander Dmitrovich usually came for his talk. This left only the possibility of an unscheduled interrogation session, and Lucas wondered why. What could he tell them after so long? He thought he'd given up all his intelligence secrets ages ago, as they hadn't tortured him for years. They'd left him in isolation since then, and his only contact with the outside came when Aleksander Dmitrovich visited him once every two weeks. His meals were shoved into his cell through a small flap at the bottom of the door. Sometimes Lucas lay down on the floor with his head by the flap, waiting for the guards to bend down and push the tray through, in the hopes that he could at least see their fingers and remind himself that there were other people in the world. On rare occasions, he caught a glimpse of a boot.

But it was Aleksander Dmitrovich, a stereotypical Russian in body type; short and broad, but with a surprisingly high voice. "Lucas Aleksandrovich," he said quietly. Lucas remembered how put out the man had been at discovering that Lucas had no middle name, and how he'd promptly given Lucas one -- his own. Lucas had immediately thought that it was a subtle way of showing that he belonged to Aleksander Dmitrovich now, body and most of his soul, but not like a beloved son. Proof of ownership or not, however, he'd gotten used to the name over the years, and rarely thought of it anymore.

"Aleksander Dmitrovich," Lucas replied, not bothering to hide his surprise or his pleasure. It had been ten days since he'd last seen the man, and he hadn't expected to see him for four more. Even if Aleksander Dmitrovich was going to haul him to the interrogation room, it was still good to see another human. Maybe there'd even be a guard.

"I have a surprise for you," Aleksander Dmitrovich said, smiling a little, but Lucas thought the smile didn't quite meet his eyes. "Come out."

"Come out," was what he always said whenever Lucas got to leave his cell, for a shower, for an interrogation, for their talks, but the part about the surprise was new. Trying not to frown with concentration, Lucas walked out of the cell, following Aleksander Dmitrovich down the corridor. Counting the steps silently, and this time reaching "twenty three Kapitolina," the number that signalled the entrance to the interrogation room, Lucas turned, but to his surprise, Aleksander Dmitrovich kept going. Lucas had to scramble to keep up, especially as they also went by the interview room next door, and around the corner to the only other place that Lucas knew in the prison – the shower room. In the antechamber, there was a table and chair near the door, where Lucas could see not only the usual towel and soap, but also an electric razor, a hair cutting machine, a pair of scissors, and other things underneath. At the back of the table, there was a bundle of folded clothing that was much more colourful than his grey prison uniform.

"Aren't you a lucky boy, Lucas Aleksandrovich," Aleksander Dmitrovich said, smiling again. "It is not even a Saturday and you get a shave, a haircut, a shower, and clean clothes."

"What's going on, Aleksander Dmitrovich?" Lucas asked. He wouldn't allow himself to hope, not just yet. It could all be a ploy, something else to torment him with.

"Be a good boy, Lucas Aleksandrovich,." the older man said. "Don't ask questions, and you will get a reward. Now, you sit here. I will shave you and cut your hair."

A reward. Lucas felt his mouth water at the thought that it might be coffee. That was the reward that Aleksander Dmitrovich gave him most often, when they spoke. He sat down and leaned his head back for the older man to trim and then shave off his beard. Involuntarily, he remembered the first time Aleksander Dmitrovich had offered him a reward, a drink of coffee. It had been after he'd broken, when he was feeling guilty, sick at himself, and yet relieved that they weren't hurting him any more. The coffee had been vile, but he'd drunk it anyway. Lucas pushed that memory away and replaced it with a more recent one, of accepting a cup of coffee during one of Aleksander Dmitrovich's visits. It was part of a pattern they'd established, Aleksander Dmitrovich asked him a question, just one, and if he was pleased with the answer, he poured coffee for Lucas. If he wasn't, Lucas got only lukewarm water.

Aleksander Dmitrovich finished with the razor, then reached for the machine to cut his hair, shaving it down military short and using the scissors to snip away any stray strands. When he was finished, he tidied everything away, then nodded approvingly. "That will do. Strip down now, body search."

Lucas obeyed, knowing it was just routine. He'd stopped feeling humiliated long ago, and had recently even joked to Aleksander Dmitrovich that he was keeping an eye out for a rat or a mouse in his cell, so that he could kill it and stick it in his armpit as a surprise. His reward that day had been Aleksander Dmitrovich's full-bodied laugh, along with the cup of coffee. But in all the time he'd been in the cell, he'd never seen anything larger than a spider.

"Now, get washed and get dressed," Aleksander Dmitrovich commanded.

Lucas took the towel and soap, and went into the shower. The water was cold, and after making sure he was wet all over, he turned it off before lathering up. It was always cold, even in the summer, but he was good now at washing quickly and efficiently. He had an inkling that he was being transferred somewhere else, somewhere worse. Siberia, perhaps, one of the gulags, but he didn't know why. Why now, after so many years of isolation, with only Aleksander Dmitrovich for company? Drying himself off, he reached for the clothes, and realized with a jolt that they were his own, the things he'd been wearing when he'd been arrested. Lina had bought that shirt for him; he hadn't thought he'd ever see it again. He could remember a time when she'd run her hands up this particular jumper, too, before grabbing his earlobes and giving his head a little shake. Their laughter had been a prelude to a kiss … and other things. He stopped that memory and counted the buttons instead.

Lucas knew he'd lost weight after several years of prison food, but he hadn't realized just how much until he put the clothes on again. They hung, much too big for him now. He could barely keep his trousers up, even after tucking in both his shirt and his jumper. Aleksander Dmitrovich looked at him and shook his head in mock sadness.

"There's almost nothing left of you," he said, then lifted up a manila envelope that Lucas hadn't noticed before and dumped the contents out on the table. Lucas stared for a moment. Amid the other things, he'd spotted a golden wedding band that had almost rolled to the edge – his wedding ring. He picked up it wonderingly, and saw not his own hand, but Lina's, slipping it onto his finger during the ceremony with such enthusiasm that she'd jammed it into the flesh of his hand. He'd pretended to wince, and her smile had faded instantly into abject agony. He could still hear her gasp of dismay, see her relief as he'd smiled again and reassured her it wasn't that bad, he wouldn't be crippled for life. Now, Lucas slid the wedding band over the knuckle of his ring finger and made a loose fist so that it wouldn't slide off again immediately, then reached for the other objects.

His wallet was still fat with money, documents, and various plastic cards. He pushed it into his hip pocket and wondered if the extra weight would be enough to send his trousers sliding down to his knees. Thankfully, they stayed up. Next, Lucas picked up his watch. The battery had gone dead long ago and the display was blank. He laid it over his wrist, then thought better of it, and jammed it into the front pocket of his trousers instead. He stuffed his keyring there, too, then picked up his passport. It had probably expired by now, too, he thought, and flipped it open to check. His own face stared up at him, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. He probably didn't look like that anymore, he thought, and looked away, his eyes landing on the expiration date. 12 May 2006. He pulled down the collar of his jumper and slid the passport into his shirt pocket, scratched his scalp. then glanced up at Aleksander Dmitrovich for further instructions.

Picking up a clipboard and pen, the older man gave them to Lucas, then indicated a space with one stubby finger. "Sign here."

Lucas glanced over the page. It was an old form headed with the words "Possessions of Prisoners," and every single item of his had been detailed, filled in by hand in the spaces provided. He saw his own signature there on the bottom left hand side and looked automatically at that date. September 12, 1999. They'd captured him, stripped him down, and made him sign that they'd inventoried everything he'd had on. He remembered how shaky his hand had been as he'd gripped the pen that day, and realized it was shaking that way again. The space indicated was labelled "Prisoner confirms receipt of specified items," and he signed, then gave the clipboard back. Aleksander Dmitrovich added the date, which Lucas couldn't see, and scrawled his own signature at the bottom.

"You'll need this," Aleksander Dmitrovich said, handing Lucas an overcoat.

"Aleksader Dmitrovich," Lucas exclaimed in true astonishment, pulling it on. It was military issue, without markings, but delightfully warm and heavy. He hugged himself, enjoying the feeling. "Thank you!"

Aleksander Dmitrovich waved his thanks away and picked up something else from the table. "Give me your hands."

Reluctantly letting go of his ribs and putting his hands out for the cuffs, which were cold enough to send a shiver down his spine, Lucas wondered yet again what was going on. Aleksander Dmitrovich wouldn't be sending him to Siberia in his old clothes, would he? If that were the case, it would be more likely he'd get another prison uniform. They must be sending him somewhere else, maybe even -- Lucas stopped that hope, and returned his mind forcibly to Siberia. It was easier to think of Siberia, because whatever happened couldn't be worse than that.

They went up a set of stairs that Lucas had not seen for years now, and through several locked doors before finally emerging outside. It was achingly cold and windy, and the overcoat didn't seem as warm as it had inside. Snow had fallen earlier, but the sun was shining now, and the whiteness was bright enough to blind Lucas. Squeezing his eyes shut, he clapped his hands over his face, then finally recovered enough to squint out through the gap between his wrists. He could just barely stand staring down at the ground and watching Aleksander Dmitrovich's boots. The corner of a car door came into his line of vision, and he glanced up. It wasn't a prisoner transfer van or any other kind of official vehicle. It was, in fact, a beige Mercedes, complete with driver. Blinking both with the light and with surprise, Lucas risked one quick glance at Aleksander Dmitrovich for confirmation.

"Get in, Lucas Aleksandrovich," the older man said. Squinting, Lucas lowered his hands to slip inside and hauled himself automatically to the middle seat in expectation of being squeezed between Aleksander Dmitrovich and a guard. But the door on his left opened, and Aleksander Dmitrovich said, "No, no, take all the room you like, Lucas Aleksandrovich."

Feeling strangely sheepish, Lucas scooted back to his right, fumbling with his seatbelt. Once he'd clicked it into place, Lucas covered his eyes with his hands again. The car started up, and they passed two separate gate checkpoints. Lucas counted them, one Kapitolina, two Kapitolina, then stopped. Somehow, it didn't seem right to say her name out here. Her name belonged indoors, under the artificial light, to routines that he knew backwards and forwards, not to outdoor structures he'd never count again.

As the car drove on, Lucas peeked out once from between his fingers, catching one quick glimpse of snow-covered trees before the light blinded him again. It was the first greenery he had seen since his capture. He'd forgotton that there was such a thing in the world as pine trees, or any other kind of tree, for that matter. Pines made him think of Christmas trees, of Lina and their first Christmas together and how she'd been intrigued about celebrating a _religious_ custom. He'd told her that his family's Christmases were about as religious as Father Frost and the Snow Maiden bringing presents on New Year's Eve, but if Lina had been disappointed, he hadn't been able to tell.

Realizing he'd lost track of the date, Lucas wondered if he'd missed Christmas this year, or if it were still to come. He opened his mouth to ask Aleksander Dmitrovich, then remembered the promised reward, and remained silent. No questions.

The car left the isolated road and joined what sounded like a bustling highway. Lucas risked a few short looks at the cars around them, but it was still too bright and he had to retreat behind his hands again each time. In comparison to the quiet of his cell, the traffic was annoyingly loud.

Eventually, the car left the highway and drove down a very long street lined by a mixture of buildings, some old and some new, with lots of slow-moving traffic. Once, Lucas looked over to Aleksander Dmitrovich, which didn't hurt as much as looking directly outside. Where were they going? A different prison? Then suddenly, Lucas heard the roar of a jet engine, and through the window on Aleksander Dmitrovich's side, he saw a plane coming in very low over the houses.

A airport. They were approaching an airport. Lucas knew that the Russians didn't fly their prisoners to Siberia, so they had to be going somewhere else. Home! his mind cried eagerly, before he shut it up. Don't hope, he told himself firmly. Don't hope. Siberia. Or maybe it was that scare tactic where they put a hood over your head and pretended to push you out of a helicopter a mile high, but you fell all of four feet to the ground. Yes. Torture.

But there was still a part of his mind that didn't believe it, a part that thought longingly of Lina and had even started to hope to actually see her again.

Eventually, the car stopped in front of a familiar-looking structure. The guard got out of the front and opened the door on Lucas' side, holding it open. Lucas fumbled his way out of the car, trying to protect his eyes and stare at the building at the same time. Domodedovo Airport! He recognized it immediately, even if they were several meters away from the main entrance. Aleksander Dmitrovich had already gotten out, now he came around the back of the Mercedes and headed to a smaller door at the corner of the building marked "Staff Only," which he opened with a key card. Alongside the guard, Lucas followed awkwardly, only taking his hands away from his face once they were completely inside.

Here, there were no signs of the bustling terminal that Lucas had expected, just a long, deserted corridor with several doors. Aleksander Dmitrovich strolled down it as though he were at home, leading them up a flight of stairs and down another corridor, until, after another use of the key card, they finally emerged in the departure area. From where they stood, Lucas could see a long row of airport gates, along with the duty free shop and the entrance to a lounge. There were people everywhere, crowding certain gates, scattered in more isolated groups at others, or bustling along with their luggage.

It was so open and so unstructured in comparison to the prison that Lucas felt immediately overwhelmed. He'd yearned for so long to see other people, but … not so many, and not all at once. He didn't realize that he had stopped and was staring until Aleksander Dmitrovich nudged him from behind, and then he staggered for a few steps. They walked in the direction of the lounge, and then Aleksander Dmitrovich turned suddenly to enter the almost-empty waiting area in front of one of the gates. There were only a few passengers there, and as they approached, two of the men in the nearest seats stood up.

"Aleksander Dmitrovich Kuznetsov," one of the men said, and Lucas frowned slightly. He couldn't remember if he'd ever heard Aleksander Dmitrovich's surname. In any case, it wasn't the way the man should be addressed.

"Harry Pearce," Aleksander Dmitrovich said.

Harry Pearce! Lucas' heart gave a little jump at the familiar name, and he stared hard at the man. A bit less hair, a few more wrinkles, but it was unmistakeably him.

"Lucas," Harry said, smiling. The other man, whom Lucas didn't know, was smiling, too.

"Give me your hands," Aleksander Dmitrovich said. It was the first time Lucas had ever heard him speak English, and it took him a moment to realize what the man had said. Slowly, he extended his wrists, and Aleksander Dmitrovich unlocked the handcuffs, then pulled them off. Still speaking English, he reached up and patted Lucas' cheek with one hand. "You've been a good boy, Lucas Aleksandrovich. Here's your reward. You're going home."

"No coffee?" Lucas blurted out before he could stop himself, and Aleksander Dmitrovich laughed. "Harry will buy you coffee from now on. With any luck, we will never see each other again."

He wrapped his arms around Lucas and pulled him close for a quick bear hug, then gave him a kiss on each cheek. Lucas was too startled to react, except to stiffen at the man's touch, and stood dumbfounded, watching in silence as Aleksander Dmitrovich nodded to the two men, then strolled back the way he'd come.

"Lucas," Harry said, and Lucas turned his head to meet Harry's gaze.

"Harry," he said, surprised that his voice came out normal, and not as a whisper. Harry reached out and caught Lucas' hand in both of his, gripping it strongly before letting go.

"This is Adam Carter." Harry indicated the blond man next to him, who was as tall as Lucas himself. "Adam, this is Lucas North."

"Hello," Adam said, and Lucas echoed the word. They shook hands, too.

"Adam, go get Lucas some coffee," Harry said, indicating a machine nearby. Adam went off without a word, and Harry pulled something out of the pocket of his coat. "I think you'll need this."

It was a belt, rolled into a tight coil. Lucas took it.

"I never pick up anybody from Russia without bringing one," Harry went on.

"Are you really here to pick me up?" Lucas asked slowly. He hadn't spoken English in such a long time. "This isn't a joke?"

"It's no joke, Lucas. You're coming home."

Lucas suddenly remembered something and felt a rush of panic. "Harry, my passport's expired."

"It's all right, Lucas, we've got you a new one." He reached into the inside pocket of his suit and pulled out a British passport, opening it to show Lucas a copy of the picture he'd just seen in his old passport. "Put the belt on, hmm?"

Lucas removed his coat, then threaded the belt through the belt loops of his trousers, tightening it until it was comfortable. It was such a relief not to have to worry about losing his clothes that he sighed deeply. "Spasiba—" Harry frowned, and Lucas realized he'd spoken Russian. He tried again. "Thank you, Harry."

Adam came back then and extended a small steaming cup in Lucas' direction. "I put milk and sugar in, I hope you don't mind."

"Thank you." Lucas would have drunk any kind of coffee. He lifted the cup and automatically counted one Kapitolina before sipping, wondering if he could make it last to seventeen Kapitolina, the size of the cup that Aleksander Dmitrovich usually rewarded him with. It was hot, and sweeter than he was used to, but tasted good. He took another sip. Two Kapitolina.

"Let's go," Harry said. "They've already called our flight."

Folding his coat over his arm, Lucas followed Harry to a gate farther down the concourse, and was surprised to see how many people had already lined up to hand over their tickets and walk down the skyway to the plane. Only a few remained lounging in their seats, reading newspapers in both English and Russian. Harry steered them to the end of the line and they shuffled slowly forwards. At first, Lucas peered around at everything, trying to take it all in at once, but was soon so overwhelmed by the sheer mass of humanity that he soon ended up staring down at the floor.

"Here," Harry said, handing back an electronically printed card, and when Lucas hesitated, not knowing what to do, he added, "It's your ticket, Lucas."

Lucas transferred his coffee to his left hand and gripped the ticket in his right, reading it again and again. There was his name, Lucas North. There was the number of the flight and its destination, BD2904, Moscow Domodedovo to London Heathrow, departing at 10.05 and arriving at 11.15. It looked real. It had to be real. Aleksander Dmitrovich had left him here with Harry Pearce. It was real. He was out of prison and flying to London with Harry. It was real.

"Sir? Your ticket?"

Lucas glanced up at the unfamiliar voice and realized that they had made it to the front of the line, and the airline employee was holding out her hand. Slowly, he surrendered the card. The woman ran it through the machine and returned a stub to him with a cheerful smile. "Have a nice flight, sir."

Lucas took the stub and walked quickly to where Harry was waiting at the entrance to the skywalk. Adam came up behind them, and they walked towards the door of the plane. There was a crowd there already, blocked from getting to their seats by the others ahead of them, and Lucas realized that they were all going to be on the same plane. For some reason, the thought worried him, and his anxiety increased as they got closer.

When they finally boarded and were looking for row 22, Lucas thought he heard Harry ask something, but the words didn't register. All that he could see were people, men and women and even children filling every seat and overflowing into every available space. There wasn't going to be enough room for them! Surely the flight was massively overbooked, and it would take off with them still in the aisles, holding on to anything they could grab and jammed face to face with strangers with barely enough room to breathe. It would be like a London bus or tube at rush hour, no, it would be worse, because they wouldn't be stopping every five minutes to let people out.

"Lucas," Harry said, and Lucas pulled his eyes away from the alarming sight. His heart was starting to pound, and breathing seemed more difficult all of a sudden. He wanted to plead with Harry to get him out of there, but pleading had never worked in prison, and he stopped himself before he'd said more than, "Harry …"

"You're all right, Lucas," Harry said. "Take a drink of coffee."

Lucas looked down at the cup in his hand, surprised it was still there, and obeyed without stopping to count which sip it was. His hand was shaking, and the coffee, once too sweet, now tasted strangely sour. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"No, you're not. Sit down there by the window," Harry commanded. Lucas swung himself into the seat, pulled the tray table down, placed the coffee cup on it, dropped his coat across his legs, then buried his face in his hands and tried to breathe deeply. He was trembling all over.

"Lucas, look at me," Harry said, sliding into the seat next to him. Lucas glanced up, clenching his hands to fists as he saw not only Harry, but all the people behind him as well. Shuffling his feet restlessly back and forth, Lucas clamped his lips shut to keep from screaming.

"You can't panic on board, or we'll never get you home." Harry reached into the inside pocket of his suit and brought out a pen. "They have new rules about disruptive passengers these days. I'm sorry."

Lucas forced his hands to open, then balled them into fists again, too agitated to listen properly. A moment later, Harry thrust the pen close to his face and clicked the button at the end of it. Lucas jerked back, but it was too late, the funny taste of the knockout gas had already filled his mouth. The last thing he knew was Harry saying, "Just close your eyes, and think of England."


	2. Chapter 2

"Eleven Kapitolina

Please feel free to offer criticism as well as praise. If you think I didn't get Harry's character right, or if you think this whole thing is unrealistic, or anything seems just that little bit off, then tell me. I'm always looking for ways to improve my writing. Thanks!

Forgot my disclaimer on the first chapter. Spooks and the characters of Lucas North and Harry Pearce belong to the BBC and Kudos Productions. I am only borrowing them with the intent to entertain and not to profit.

xxxxx

Lucas awoke to a pervasive, pungent smell that made his eyes water. Coughing reflexively, he lifted his head, and when he could breathe normally again, he saw Harry watching him, rolling an empty capsule of smelling salts between his fingers.

"Look out the window," Harry said. "We're home."

Lucas turned obediently. The skies outside were grey, it was raining, and away to his left, there was lettering on the building. He could see the letters e_athrow. _It was raining, Lucas thought. It never rained in Moscow in the winter. There was always snow. It must be true, then, they were back in England.

"Do you need any help, gentlemen?"

Lucas glanced up sharply, but it was only a stewardess.

"We're fine," Harry told her.

"Oh, Sleeping Beauty is awake," she said, smiling at Lucas. "I hope you had pleasant dreams."

Her direct gaze was too much, and Lucas looked away, feeling himself blush with embarrassment.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty," Harry said, standing up, and Lucas staggered to his feet as well, looking around the plane. It was all but empty now, except for Adam and a few stragglers making their way up the aisle on the other side. His legs feeling uncharacteristically wobbly, Lucas had to hold onto the backs of the seats to keep himself upright as he followed Harry, but by the time they got to the exit, he was able to stand without support.

Harry handed him his overcoat, which he must have taken while Lucas was asleep, but Lucas didn't put it on. In comparison to the Moscow cold, the wind in London was positively balmy, and Lucas breathed deeply in appreciation, lifting his face to let the rain fall on it. The air tasted so good, so fresh and moist, that he was disappointed when they had to get into a nearby bus and be driven to one of the many gates that led indoors. Casting only occasional glances at the five other passengers on the bus, Lucas mostly stared out of the window, watching the rain and the activity on the tarmac. He was in London. He was really in London.

They went through an accelerated line at Customs and Immigration, no doubt due to Harry's connections, and emerged in the Arrivals area. It was very crowded, with people bustling everywhere, one girl even running into him by accident, and Lucas felt pathetically grateful to Harry for letting him sleep through the flight. Here, he could sense panic creeping up on him again, but at least there was a chance of escape.

"I'll get the car," Adam offered, just as Lucas opened his mouth to say, "I need the toilet."

In the men's room, Lucas locked himself in one of the stalls, used the toilet and then just sat there, glad of even a few minutes of this artificial solitude. He wanted to stay there forever, he thought. He wanted to be back in his cell where nobody was staring at him, nobody was jostling him, it was quiet, and he knew exactly what was going to happen next. No, he realized. He didn't want to be back in his cell, he just wanted to be alone. And as soon as he could really believe it, he was going to be glad to be in England, glad to be home, and definitely glad to see Lina again.

The thought of Lina helped overcome his reluctance to leave the stall. Washing his hands at the sink, Lucas stared at his reflection in the mirror, wondering what she'd think of his appearance now.

"I haven't changed as much as I thought I would," he said out loud, acutely aware of Harry watching him. "I thought I would be an old man."

Harry smiled gently but didn't speak.

Lucas squinted at his chin and cheeks, identifying isolated grey hairs among the dark ones of his stubble. "Do you think Lina will still recognize me?"

"I recognized you," Harry said, sidestepping the question.

"Does she know I'm out?"

"No," Harry said. "We haven't told her yet."

"And my mother?"

"We didn't tell her you were in," Harry said. Lucas' mother was suffering from early-onset Alzheimer's disease and one of the last things he'd done before flying to Russia was to visit her in the hostel where she was taken care of. She'd had some lucid moments then, but she certainly wouldn't know him now.

Harry cut off any further questions by walking to the door, and Lucas followed. When they reached the car, Harry motioned for him to sit in the front. Lucas balked for a moment, then realized that it was an English car, a Range Rover, the steering was on the other side, and he would be in the passenger seat. Feeling sheepish, he slid in.

"I got you some more coffee," Adam said, indicating a cup in a cup-holder underneath the dashboard.

"Thank you," Lucas said, taking the cup and struggling to remove the plastic lid. The smell reminded him that, according to his stomach, it was past lunchtime and he was hungry. He counted his sip as he took it, and thought of how Lina always took her coffee with two milks, but no sugar. She'd never liked tea, he remembered, just coffee, and he wondered if she was drinking some now. There was a billboard ahead, advertising a brand of tea that Lucas had once liked, and the Christmas theme caught Lucas' eye.

"Harry, what day is it to-day?" he asked.

"It's the third of December," Harry said, and Adam added, "Tuesday."

Tuesday, Lucas thought, and the random thought shot through his head that Aleksander Dmitrovich had always come on Saturdays. But he didn't want to think about Aleksander Dmitrovich just now, he wanted to think of Lina.

"So I haven't missed Christmas," he said aloud, sipping his coffee again. There was still plenty of time to buy something for Lina. He wondered what, if anything, could make up for his years away from her.

"That's what we were hoping for," Harry said.

Lucas made his coffee last for a record-breaking twenty six sips, taking the last one just as they pulled up at the medical clinic attached to Thames House.

"Lunch first," Harry told him, "and then a check-up."

The canteen was about one third full, just enough to make Lucas uncomfortable, but not enough to make him panic. He tried hard to ignore the other people and concentrated on the food instead. It was simple, chicken soup and sandwiches, but to Lucas, it tasted exotically delicious. He ate slowly as always, to make it last, and was full even before he'd finished.

"More?" Harry asked, and Lucas glanced up in surprise, then shook his head reluctantly.

"Then let's get you to the doctor," Harry said.

The medical and dental examinations took all afternoon and some of the evening, and included every kind of probe known to man, including x-rays and an MRI scan from head to foot. The MRI tube should have reminded him of prison, Lucas, thought, as narrow and confining as it was. Truthfully, however, he saw it as a welcome break, a precious allowance of solitude. Lying on the stretcher, Lucas let himself drift off into a daydream of Lina, remembering how he'd only found out her full name, Kapitolina, when they'd decided to get married. "Don't laugh," she'd warned him. "Funny names run in our family. My great-grandmother was called Barikada."

"Born in 1917?" Lucas had guessed. "Well, it could have been worse, instead of _Barricade_, she could have been named Revolutsiya."

"That was my other great-grandmother," Lina had told him, quite deadpan. "And she married a man named Dazdapetrak."

"_The first tractor_?" Lucas had translated automatically. "Are you serious?"

"About as serious as you were when you told me you had a middle name and it was Bear, Mister Lucas _Bear North_," she'd replied, and they'd both laughed.

The memory of Lina's giggles made Lucas wonder what he'd say when he saw her again. "Hello," seemed too ordinary, and "Did you miss me?" was too desperate. Maybe he should tease her by saying, "How you've grown!" More than once, she'd proudly told him, "I'm quite tall for a gymnast!" and had straightened up to her full height of five foot three. She barely came up to his shoulder, and he always had to put his head down if she wanted to give him a kiss. Sometimes, Lina asked nicely, sometimes, she grabbed him by the ears and pulled. He liked it best when she put her arms around his neck and gently put pressure on the back of his head to make him lean down. Just remembering it made him smile.

He'd never seen Lina do any gymnastic moves except the occasional stretch. She'd had to retire at age sixteen, she'd told him once, because of a repeat injury to her back, and was always very careful not to get hurt again. But she'd remained flexible, even while studying English and European law. Before he could remember just how flexible she'd been, however, the scan ended, and Lucas was rolled out of the MRI machine.

At long last, all of the physical examinations were finished, and the dentist had filled several cavities in his teeth. Lucas was informed that he was not HIV-positive and did not have tuberculosis, the two greatest dangers in Russian prisons, nor did he have measurable brain damage from the torture, which was a relief. On the other hand, he was malnourished and had head lice, neither of which was very surprising. They gave him a bottle of vitamin tablets, then sent him to a nearby treatment room. There, a nurse fastened a plastic sheet around his neck as though for a haircut, then rubbed a generous application of Lice Fighter into his hair and massaged it into his scalp. She let it sit for ten full minutes before leading him to the sink and washing it out. It stank voraciously of chemicals, even after several rinsings, and he could still smell it as she went through his hair with a nit comb. When she was finally finished, she cleaned the comb, picked up the bottle of cream rinse, and put them both in the plastic bag that already held his vitamins. "You'll need to reapply this after seven days, and get someone to comb you out. Every day would be best. Now, if you'll just go to the waiting area, we'll inform Mr Pearce that you're ready."

Lucas took the bag and wondered what Lina would say when he asked for her help. Hopefully, she wouldn't get lice herself. It would be very difficult and time-consuming to run the nit comb through her long, thick hair, and she'd probably feel humiliated as well, because she hadn't been the one in prison. Sitting down in the waiting area, as far away from the other occupants as he could get, Lucas thought of Lina's hair. He loved to run his fingers through it, and sometimes she even let him brush it. He'd told her often that she should never have it cut, and she'd assured him that she wouldn't, that she'd let it grow out after she'd retired from gymnastics, and never wanted it short again.

The sound of footsteps made him raise his head, and he looked up to see Harry come into the waiting room, a young black man following him.

"Lucas, sorry to keep you waiting," Harry said smoothly. "This is Tim Forster, he'll be your minder at the safe house."

"Glad to meet you, Lucas," Tim said, putting out a hand.

They shook, and then Lucas stood up, suddenly drenched in fatigue. "Safe house, Harry?"

"Just for a few days," Harry said blithely. "Fish and chips for supper, then?"

Lucas' stomach growled audibly, and Tim smiled. "I think that's a yes, Harry."

"Yeah," Lucas agreed. Fish and chips. It was the most English thing he could think of, the meal farthest removed from Russian prison fare. He hadn't eaten it for years, even before he'd been captured, but now he couldn't think of anything he wanted more.

It was dark outside, and raining even more heavily than during the day. This time, Lucas did put his coat on, and after that, sat quietly in the car. He was too tired to make conversation and simply watched the lights of the city speed by until they stopped outside a chip shop. Tim turned off the engine and turned to him. "You want to come in?"

Seeing a happy couple strolling into the shop under one umbrella, their arms looped so closely around each other that they had to turn slightly to fit through the doorway, Lucas shook his head. "No, I'll wait here."

"Suit yourself," Tim said, and got out. He'd barely shut the door when Lucas became aware of a car pulling up behind them. He shifted in his seat and watched as the occupants got out, stiffening in alarm as they appeared to approach the Range Rover. At the last minute, though, they turned and raced across the street to enter an Indian takeaway. Lucas relaxed somewhat, and in the light of the streetlamp above them, he caught Harry staring at him from the back seat. Embarrassed, Lucas turned away, and was glad when Harry didn't comment.

Tim returned about five minutes later with a large bag that he shoved into Lucas' lap. It was hot and steamed aromatically. "You can dig in now if you want, but if you can wait another two minutes, the safe house is just around the corner."

Tim hadn't been exaggerating; the safe house was not more than two hundred meters up the next street. As the car pulled into the driveway, it obviously triggered a motion sensor, because the entire front of the house lit up, revealing a vaguely familiar facade. Lucas supposed he must have been here at least once before, though he couldn't remember the details now. Harry rang the bell, they were immediately buzzed in, and a short, plump woman met them in the front hall.

"Hello, Harry," she said, but her voice sounded more stern when she added, "Hello, Tim."

"Joan, this is Lucas North. Lucas, this is the housekeeper, Joan Hudson."

"Hello," Lucas said. Although the house was familiar, he didn't remember her. But it had been eight years, after all, and things changed in eight years.

"I'm glad to meet you, Lucas," she replied without a hint of a smile or the offer of a handshake. "If you need or want anything, just ask, and I'll get it for you. Tim, next time you spill the sugar while making coffee, _clean it up_."

"Sorry, Joan, I was in a hurry." Tim apologized without visible remorse, and Joan's expression turned even more stern.

"I can smell that you've got your supper, so I'll leave you to it." Joan turned and went into the front room, closing the door firmly behind her.

"Battle-axe," Tim whispered conspiratorially to Lucas, then caught Harry's disapproving glance and straightened up. "Right, let's eat. I'm starved."

He led the way into the kitchen and began unpacking the food, handing round the drinks first and then the individual portions. Lucas bit off half a chip to find that it was unpleasantly greasy. He ate it anyway, nibbled at the fish, then took a sip of Coke. The soft drink was so sweet that it made his teeth ache, and he winced.

"If I'd just spent eight years in a Russian prison, I would _throw_ myself on fish and chips," Tim said conversationally, taking a huge bite.

"I see the nickname Tactless Tim wasn't an exaggeration," Harry murmured, and Tim grimaced.

"Sorry," he said, sounding almost as though he meant it.

Lucas leaned back a little and looked around. He was in a safe house, in London, in England, and there was a chip shop around the corner. Realization flooded through him that he didn't have to eat slowly and stretch out his meals to make them seem bigger. He could gobble down all the fish and chips he wanted, or even Indian takeaway, and Harry or Tim would buy him a second portion if he asked. Heartened, he took a larger bite– and promptly choked on it.

Tim pounded him on the back, and when he could breathe again, Harry handed him a drink. Ignoring the sweetness, Lucas gulped it down, then sat back.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Tim babbled. "I didn't mean to kill you!"

"Tim, shut up," Harry suggested, and Tim snapped his mouth closed.

"It's all right," Lucas wheezed. He coughed a few and took another drink of Coke. "I'm still alive."

"Thank goodness for that," Tim said. "How would that look on the report, eight years in a Russian prison and then killed by a piece of battered haddock?"

There was an awkward pause until Harry visibly decided to ignore that remark, and sprinkled more vinegar on his chips before starting to eat again. Lucas took another drink, felt flustered when he realized he'd forgotten to count the number of swallows, told himself firmly that he didn't need to do that anymore, then bit off a smaller piece of fish. He knew that Tim was watching him intensely in case something else happened, and glanced away as the younger man's mouth folded over three chips at once. They finished their meal in silence.

Neatly folding up his chip paper, Harry got to his feet. "Lucas, I'm going to leave you here now. Tim will bring you to Thames House to-morrow at nine for your first de-briefing session, and he knows how to get in touch with me or Adam if there are any problems. All right?"

"Harry—" Lucas started, then stopped. Harry gave him an encouraging expression, waiting patiently for him to speak again.

"When can I call Lina?"

It seemed to Lucas that Harry hesitated, or maybe Tim just spoke too fast. "Who's Lina?"

"My wife," Lucas said, then said her name aloud, enjoying every syllable. "Kapitolina Sergeevna North."

"Your wife?" Tim asked. "I thought you were divorced, it says so on your file."

"What!" Lucas exclaimed, looking to Harry for reassurrance that this was not the case and that Tim had gotten it mixed up. Harry sat down again, slowly, his face grave, and Lucas felt the same sickening dread that he experienced whenever he knew that an interrogation session was about to begin.

"I didn't want to tell you right away," Harry said quietly. "I'm sorry, Lucas. She petitioned for divorce about three years ago."

Lucas stared at him and repeated the words, not understanding. "Petitioned for divorce?"

"Didn't you know?" Tim asked. "Didn't she need your consent or something?"

"You can petition for divorce without the consent of your partner if you can prove you've been living apart for more than five years," Harry explained in a soft voice. "She contacted us for help with that proof."

"Did she say why?" Lucas asked. He was amazed he could still speak, but there was no pain, not yet, just shock and surprise.

"I think she'd met somebody else."

Lucas slumped. "Oh." Of course, that had to be it. Lina was such a lively girl, she enjoyed the company of others, and he hadn't been there for her. Eight years was a long time to wait. Things changed in eight years.

"I'm sorry," Harry said again. Standing up, he laid his hand on Lucas' shoulder, left it there for a moment, then walked away. Lucas heard the front door open and shut.

"I'm sorry," Tim said as well. Lucas stared down at the table, still too shocked to feel anything except surprise. There was a long silence.

"Uh … you want me to show you which room you'll be sleeping in?" Tim finally offered.

With an effort, Lucas responded, "Yeah," and heaved himself up from his chair. He followed Tim up the stairs to a bedroom at the back of the house and listened to Tim's nervous chatter.

"You've got a television and a stereo, don't know what kind of music you like, but you can just tell me and I'll get some CD's for you. Um, I bought some clothes for you this morning and they're in the wardrobe. The bathroom's right next door if you want to take a shower." Tim paused. "I'll just leave you alone now, all right? I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

He said again, "I'm sorry," then he went out and shut the door.

Lucas stood in the middle of the room. It was a little nicer than a B&B, but just about as impersonal. He remembered the flat that he and Lina shared. Had shared. She'd decorated it, added personal touches, made it homey with pictures that she'd taken herself, stuffed animals she'd collected when she'd gone abroad to gymnastic tournaments, and a few other knick-knacks that she'd bought especially for the purpose. What had she done with all of his things, after he'd gone? Had she put them into storage? Kept them until she'd stopped hoping that he would come back, then donated them all to Oxfam? Had she moved somewhere else, or did she still have the flat? Was she sharing it with another man even now?

The pain hit him then, like a physical blow. Staggering the two steps to the bed, Lucas collapsed onto it, turning onto his side and hugging his arms to his chest. Lina. Lina! When had she given up hope that he would ever come home again, when had she first started thinking about the divorce? Soon after he'd been captured, or years later? It hurt to think that she might have been waiting impatiently for the time period to be over so that she could start the paperwork.

In a way, Lucas thought, it would have been easier if Harry had told him that Lina had died, in a car crash perhaps, like his father, when Lucas had been at university. If that had been the case, he would still lay here, grieving, but also imagining that she had died waiting for him. This was worse, much worse. She was still alive, but she wasn't there, not for him, anyway. Her warm smiles and her strong hugs were directed towards someone else now.

Lucas' heart ached, literally. Until he'd gotten word of his father's death, he'd always thought the word heartbreak was figurative, but now, as then, he realized it wasn't, it was bloody accurate. Surprisingly sharp pain radiated from the left side of his chest, and there was an unfamiliar ache in his stomach as well. Eventually, Lucas realized that this pain had nothing to do with heartache, and leaned over the side of the bed just in time to vomit all over the floor. He continued heaving long after he'd brought everything up, and gradually, the heaves turned into sobs. Tears overflowed his eyes and, feeling more broken than he'd felt after any interrogation, Lucas let himself cry.

The End

xxxxx

Botticelli50: Thanks for your reply! I must admit that I was a little bit nervous about posting my fic on FFN because all I could see were Harry and Ruth fics, but I thought I'd give it a try nonetheless. Thanks again for stepping out of your comfort zone and giving me encouragement, and I hope you've enjoyed this ending.

DDSylvester: Thank you! (beams happily) I'm pleased you think it's both wonderful and excellent. And thank you, too, for stepping out of your comfort zone and trying something different.


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